


The Wild Hunt

by hedgerowhag



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Folklore, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Stockholm Syndrome, at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5477975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is on the darkest days of winter that the land is so cold it seems nothing will ever grow again and light will never return. And yet those days, though they are dark and cold, they are not without joy; winter is a time of a fiendish celebration named the festival of Jól.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Redrafted on 12th March 16
> 
> lets just pretend im not emotionally suffering from season 3 and 4

It is on the darkest days of winter that the land is so cold it seems like nothing will ever grow again and light will never return for there is barely a glimpse of the sun through the waves of rolling grey clouds that bring the snowstorms and the howling winds. And yet those days, though they are dark and cold, they are not without joy; winter is a time of a fiendish celebration named the festival of Jól.

When the sun is at its lowest the people of the north begin to slaughter their livestock and brew their bitter drinks for the feasts to mark the return of the sun. All about there is activity in the anticipation for the days to come; fir branches are hung on the beams and pillars of the halls and houses to bring to thought the great tree that holds the world, wheels are crafted from holy in resemblance of the sun to symbolise the turning years. Goods are baked with features of these symbols and sigils of the gods and arranged on the tables with ceremony and pride to shows the gods the faith of the northern folk. There isn’t a place within the houses and the halls that is absent of the festive symbols adorning the surfaces.

It is on the sunset of the shortest day when the flames are lit in the fire pits that the games and dances begin: the guests to arrive at the jarl’s hall bearing gifts and well-wishes and there isn’t an hour without music or warm food and drink being passed about the crowds (all the víkingar come, there are no exceptions regarding their welcomes – after all, they have all sworn their oaths).  

All duties are forgotten on those days, even the servants are called from their work. Athelstan was no exception; though he nobly attempted to stay from the drunken merriment and keep to his duties, he was soon pulled away to join the guests. (It needn’t to have been mentioned that Athelstan had been plied with drink throughout the duration of the night and was left him dizzy and giddy.)

In the evening, as the feverous joy settled into something more docile and warm, the people sat around the fire and spoke of tales and legends. They were not comforting, or merry, but they were not without their magic. The children listened, sitting there with their toothy smiles and eyes gleaming in the fire, filled with awe and wonder. The elder folk were not without their own joy for these strange stories, but theirs was more melancholy, for they were reminiscing of their time as children when they heard these very same tales.

As another tale began, of some dark entities before the time of the common man, Athelstan’s thoughts began to swim, wandering to this and that in a dizzying cycle. As he glanced around the room to steady his thoughts he came to glimpse the sight of Aslaug and Ragnar sat amongst the folk. They were wrapped around each under an array of pelts as Aslaug began to doze against her husband, her face flushed with the warmth of the fire. A certain type of beauty came about Aslaug in her state of docile comfort, not a crease of worry marring her features. She was beautiful and her temporary joy was only to be admired.

It is only moments later that Athelstan noticed that in turn Ragnar watched him; there was lazy smile on his lips as his eyes trailed over Athelstan, his eyes seeing deeper than his skin. It must have been the drink, he assured himself, that sent him reeling and dizzy as he felt himself flush heavily. Carefully Athelstan left the gathered crowd, avoiding catching glances of the guests. By the shadows he skulked and out of the door into the frigid cold of the winter night.

The moment the cold air enveloped him Athelstan regretted leaving so abruptly. The last of the snow meandered from the sky to the ground that was all white from the storms that raged throughout the day; the snowdrifts were as high as the knee and crusted with ice, glowing under the moon that barely peeked from behind the haze of clouds. It was all that dispelled the darkness that settled about the world, the shadow that seemed to have no end.

As he shivered in the night air Athelstan listened to the voices beyond the doors, the crackle of the fire as the children hushed down to hear the conclusion of the adventure. He thought of the folk gathered about, in the shadows of the dancing fire, of the people he dared to call ‘family’.

Amongst the haze of thought Athelstan hardly noticed the door creak, or the footsteps creeping towards him. When the hands roughly clap against his sides Athelstan almost bit through his tongue, supressing a cry as he reeled in fear. Furiously he began swatting away the pest who frightened him out of his skin but then the familiar laughter rumbled in the dark and Athelstan was pulled by his swatting hands.

Ragnar’s wrapped his warm arms about Athelstan, allowing the woollen blanket bound about his shoulders to slip off onto the young man. “Come back inside, little priest,” laughed Ragnar, his breath stinking of vile drink, “Before the restless dead men steal you away.” Though there was humour in his voice he tightened his arms around Athelstan protectively.

“What dead men?” Snapped Athelstan as he twisted out of Ragnar’s arms. The northernman caught him by the sleeve, pulling on the fraying threads of the fabric like a fidgeting child.

“Foolish little priest,” Ragnar mocked, “don’t you know of the winter hunt? When the horde of hounds and men rides across the sky, led by Odin on Sleipnir’s back,”he spoke with a smile as sly as a trickster’s ploy, “It is said that when the huntsmen pass, Odin’s hounds are heard within the village — one loud and the second fainter. And those who are found wandering outside, while the riders pass, are stolen away.”

At last Athelstan pulled his sleeve away from Ragnar’s grasp, shivering from the chill that crawled under his linen tunic. “And where do the riders take the people they steal?”

“Who knows,” Ragnar shrugged, “But don’t be afraid, I will protect you from the huntsmen.” With a grin he pulled Athelstan towards himself, wrapping him in the woollen blanket, tethering the young man in an embrace, to keep him from running. Yet this time Athelstan didn’t try to pull away, he allowed himself to be pressed against Ragnar’s chest, his arms placed between the two of them. They remained silent like that for several passing moments. Laughter was heard from within the hall, the occasional stomp of shuffling feet and the gentle murmur of voices.

“I don’t think—“ Athelstan paused, “I don’t think I could be scared of being stolen by those riders of which you speak.”

“O! And why is that?” He heard Ragnar laugh, his chin resting on Athelstan’s crown as he swayed to music only the drunk norseman heard.

“I am afraid I have already been stolen,” explained Athelstan as he allowed himself to rest into Ragnar’s embrace. “You see, these strangers took me from my home, they took me the moment I left the safety of my fear,” Athelstan felt Ragnar still against him. “They took others too and carried us across the sea. They killed those people, but they let me live, they kept me and cared for me. I don’t think I mind being stolen if this is what it's like.”

It was Ragnar who pulled away then. A peculiar smile playing on his features — it wasn’t sly, it wasn’t victorious, or even joyous for that matter, it was soft and sincere. He then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s brow, it was barely a brush of breath for so gentle it was.

As he drew away, carefully, Ragnar stroked his knuckles against Athelstan’s jaw, watching as the young man in his arms attempted to suppress a smile. “What a strange man you are, priest,” he whispered as a second kiss followed against Athelstan’s lips.

Yes, Athelstan decided, if this is what it's like to be stolen he doesn't mind it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> my existence is also available on [ tumblr](http://beeeeebeeee.tumblr.com/)


End file.
